Joseph Rourke with his daughter, Catherine, age 2
by Catherine J. Rourke
It was Father’s Day 2002 and Dad lay dying, far away in a New York City hospital, deteriorating from the combined symptoms of Parkinson’s disease and prostate cancer at the age of 82.
That afternoon, we spoke for what would be the very last time. As always, his questions remained the same as they had for the last three decades.
“How’s your financial situation?”
My answers remained the same as they did three decades ago.
“Uh… well, there never seems to be quite enough to make ends meet.”
Money was always short, thanks to journalism's low wages and Sedona’s outrageously high-priced housing market, where the average home sold for $864,000. Dad agreed there was something terribly wrong with real estate prices, media salaries and the cost of living, in general.
Next question.
“Are you focusing on your creative writing?” he asked, referring to most journalists’ elusive dream of penning a book. The answer echoed the financial one.
“Uh… well, there never seems to be quite enough time.”
Time and money. Weren’t they every writer’s eternal lament?
“Never ever ever give up!” Dad declared, repeating his favorite motto from Sir Winston Churchill. “Always remember your dreams and keep them alive. And, remember, I believe in you and will always love you.”
Dad slipped into a coma shortly after and passed away a few weeks later. The word came to me at my newsroom desk just as we were putting another paper to bed. Tears sprang to my eyes and my heart wept, but I continued silently with my work until we made deadline, just as Dad would want me to do.
He had lost the battle against cancer but ultimately won the war, as he lived a life rich in heart, courage and spirit, leaving a noble legacy to his children.
Right up until his last breath, Joseph Rourke was the quintessential father, dedicated to his family above everything else. He died the way he lived his life – selflessly devoted to them in true paternal fashion.
A lifetime of devotion
It all began in New York City in 1932 during the Great Depression when Dad was 12 and lost his own father in a tragic accident. That year he became a father overnight to his four brothers and sisters, leaving sixth grade to support his mother and siblings.
Dad found employment as a newspaper boy, hawking headlines in Times Square in his cap and knickers. Then he landed a job as a Western Union messenger, delivering Moneygrams to Broadway showgirls, who lavished him with hugs and generous tips.
Dad made certain his family never went hungry in an era that preceded Social Security and extensive life insurance policies. At a time when many folks were picking through the trash for sustenance, he fed his loved ones roast beef.
Then the war came, and Dad naturally volunteered to serve his country, enlisting in the Army Air Force in 1940. He miraculously survived Pearl Harbor and, later on, a severe plane crash when his B-24 bomber was shot down over North Africa. In his typical style, Dad walked away wounded but with a Purple Heart for pulling his crew members to safety, shrugging it off as “just another day.”
That was how Dad taught us to embrace life. “Don’t ever let things get you down,” he would tell me when I felt exasperated. “You just keep on doing what you have to do, and do it with a smile.”
And so he walked his talk as he raised three children of his own on a meager bank teller’s salary while finishing his college education at night. Whether it meant working overtime or taking on a second job, he always went the extra mile to provide us with the best he possibly could.
A true millionaire
Dad wasn’t a rich man. In my eyes, he was a millionaire who bestowed to his children a boundless legacy of wisdom and unconditional love in its purest form. He taught us the joy of giving – and to expect nothing in return. While he couldn’t afford to give us big allowances or expensive toys, he lavished gifts upon us in far greater ways.
For me, his generosity was the way he always calmly lent a listening ear and offered his gentle advice or the way he mediated with teachers and boyfriends on my behalf whenever I found myself in a pickle. Whether I was moving, stuck in a crisis, looking for a job or fighting city hall, Dad never failed to come to my side, always affectionately reminding me to “keep the faith.”
The hilarious traits that still bring a smile to my face represent another treasure: the collection of Celtic plaid ties that were never quite knotted right and the way he wrestled with Christmas tree lights and threading home movies onto film projectors. Small details, perhaps, that seemed trite during the course of our young lives; yet years later these memories return to us as priceless family heirlooms.
Service and conviction
In addition, Dad set an example of passionate community service. Right up until his hospitalization, he orchestrated fund-raisers, marched in parades, conducted blood drives, organized endless committees, joined a host of fraternal organizations, volunteered for charity events and served on his college alumni board. He was always doing something for others and lending a helping hand.
I fondly remember sitting on his lap, watching him as he banged out newsletters for many community organizations on his Underwood typewriter. Dad loved books and instilled in me a love and respect for the written word. He was proud of my choice of profession and urged me to uphold the highest standards of journalistic truth and justice.
He would have wholeheartedly supported my decision to take a stand against censorship and quit the mediocrity of my newspaper job to create a proper one of my own and would have been thrilled to read these very pages.
Dad eventually became Grand Knight for his Knights of Columbus council. In my girlhood eyes, he was a grand knight, indeed, and he remained my knight in shining armor right up to the very end.
In fitting tribute to his life of service and courage, Dad was buried at Arlington National Cemetery with full military honors. Struggling to pen his eulogy, I found myself lost for words to describe this noble spirit who exemplified the very essence of paternal love and service to his fellow man.
I wrote: You can take all your great heroes – your generals and your gurus, your statesmen and your saints, your popes and your prophets – and still, all dim in comparison to the humble greatness of my father.
The real jackpot
Fortunately, Dad wasn’t alone. There are many fathers like him today who tirelessly dedicate all their time and energy to making a better life for their families. They are, quite simply and above all else, fathers – unconditionally and indefatigably.
From car crises to collect calls and emergency loans, how do we thank them for all those countless times when we just don’t know what we would have done without them?
Some years ago, as a struggling freelance writer, I found myself down to my last dime, too proud to call home. That day, a letter arrived from Dad in my mailbox, which read:
Always keep your chin up and keep in good spirits. Expect a miracle. And never ever ever give up.
Enclosed was a check for $5,000 that he had just won from a lottery ticket by playing my birthday numbers. Dad didn’t even keep a single cent for himself.
Those words meant even more than the cash that accompanied them. The money is long since gone, but the true jackpot was a father’s message of love and encouragement that remains in my heart forever.
Incredible inheritance
Dad bequeathed to me and my sisters unconditional love, compassion, perseverance, generosity, truth, integrity and service. Now that’s one mighty inheritance.
What is the legacy your father has given you?
Surely he has imparted some lessons and wisdom, even if he wasn’t the world's greatest dad. This Father’s Day, celebrate that fact and the sacrifices he may have made on your behalf. If he’s still around, tell him how much you appreciate him. I was lucky to have that opportunity before our final goodbye.
A father’s love never dies. If he’s passed on, think of it not as the loss of a parent but as the gaining of an angel who never ceases to watch over you.
The only way I can honor my dad now is to live my life just the way he did – always striving to do the best, wearing a radiant smile, providing community service, living fearlessly, giving lavishly and believing in miracles.
Happy Father’s Day to all you wonderful dads out there. Keep your chin up and keep in good spirits in these challenging times. And never ever ever give up.
Catherine J. Rourke is an award-winning professional editor and journalist in Sedona, Ariz., who writes about socioeconomic issues, the downtrodden, the working poor and the "Invisible People" to promote "soul-utions" for and justice and positive change.
Tell us how YOUR dad has blessed your life!
This is possibly the most inspiring and touching story I have read in a newspaper in a long time! Thank you for giving us readers something positive instead of all the media's usual crime reports. I just lost my father last year and have been deeply grieving his loss, but your story helped to remind me that he is indeed watching over me now from a high place. Your story just melted all my pain away and even put a smile on my face!
Shirley Seronde
Village of Oak Creek, Ariz.
I was researching Sedona papers seeking a local rental when I came upon your paper--and was stunned--and pleased to see your mission and purpose. How wonderfully refreshing--and appealing to this activist!
I'm moving there the first of July--and would love to meet you.
I'm also a writer, very attuned to and interested in social issues--and change. The kind of change within people that shifts and lifts consciousness. Individual, business, societal--and global.
Kudos to you and your courage--this is what it takes. I'll be adding your info to my own blog soon, recently started on "Change."
A beautiful tribute to your father. Beautifully and lovingly written.
It triggered my own reflections. My relationship with my dad was complicated. He was caring, yet critcal. Loving and supportive for the most part to his family--yet, critical when it hurt the most. He was a good father in that he took very good care of five kids--and was the best husband he could be to my mother--with the tools he had to work with.
Just before he went into surgery--and the last time I saw him alive--he looked into my eyes--we connected at a soul level; it was a transcendent moment--and he whispered "thank you." What he meant was so clear to me--an acknowledgement of my loving service and help to him and Mom, and my love--and my forgiveness for him, and his own way of saying he loved me. He knew he was going to die--and I did too.
On my way to the hospital in the morning, after being called and told he was in a coma and wasn't going to live, I was within two miles of hospital--and I heard his voice saying, "Don't worry about me anymore, Pat--I'm free now."
He was one of the few people who called me Pat--I knew it was him--and I knew he had died. I got to the hopsital and was told he had died just about 10 minutes prior--at about the precise time I heard him speak to me.
It was a beautiful experience--thanks for reminding me through your own story. It urged me down memory lane on this eve of Father's Day. It was a nice stroll.
Blessings to you. Thank you so much for sharing.
Patricia Kelley
Seattle, Wash.
Prison Dogs: Hope Behind Bars
www.PrisonDogsBook.com
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